


speeding up

by tamerofdarkstars



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Couch Cuddles, M/M, Movie Night, Other, Romantic Tension, Some Truly Scandalous Thoughts about Holding Hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 10:38:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19810555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamerofdarkstars/pseuds/tamerofdarkstars
Summary: Crowley stopped calculating the minute shifts required to bring his knee into contact with Aziraphale’s and looked instead at the divine being next to him currently licking butter off his fingers.“Wait. You picked this because you thought I’d like it?”





	speeding up

**Author's Note:**

> i cannot believe i've been blessed enough to live in the good omens renaissance. i adore this book and the adaptation was so well done and now there's such an influx of fan content to consume. ugh. it's just the best thing ever, guys, i'm so happy. what a time to be alive

The film was alright, all full of explosions and fast cars and very little plot, but Crowley had seen it before and if he were being honest, he’d found it all to be a bit overdone.

But Aziraphale had suggested it, standing there with the box in his hand – he’d actually gone out and rented a DVD, apparently, despite Crowley’s stunned incredulity that places still existed to do exactly that – and his eyes had been shining and hopeful, his smile only a little bit hesitant.

Crowley wouldn’t have been able to spin a better temptation if he’d tried.

So now here they were, sitting on a sofa in Crowley’s otherwise minimalist living room, watching a film on a large flat screen television that Crowley did not remember buying.

Aziraphale was eating popcorn, the tips of his fingers slick with butter. Not that Crowley had noticed.

“It’s all rather loud, isn’t it?” Aziraphale asked now, breaking Crowley out of his thoughts. Or rather, the one thought he’d been having on repeat for the first forty or so minutes of the film, that being that the angel on his couch was sitting just a hair closer to him than their normal operating procedures generally dictated.

Not that Crowley had noticed. Because he hadn’t.

“Well, they did make eight of the bloody things,” Crowley replied and Aziraphale turned to him, aghast.

“Eight? Whatever for?”

“Oh, you know the Americans and their sequels.”

Aziraphale sighed. “One of yours, I suppose.”

Actually, Crowley had had nothing to do with the concept of the cash-grab sequel – he’d been just as furious about _Grease 2_ as everyone else – but he’d accepted the positive note in his file Downstairs regardless.

“Obviously,” he said now and Aziraphale frowned.

“Eight seems a bit excessive,” he said, eating another few kernels of popcorn.

“You did pick the movie, Angel,” Crowley said, definitively Not Noticing the dwindling space between his knee and Aziraphale’s. Maybe if he let his leg fall just so…

“Yes, well, I was trying to cater to your… proclivities.”

Crowley stopped calculating the minute shifts required to bring his knee into contact with Aziraphale’s and looked instead at the divine being next to him currently licking butter off his fingers.

“Wait. You picked this because you thought I’d like it?”

Aziraphale huffed, eyes flicking first to Crowley and then to the screen again, fingers tight on the edges of the blue plastic popcorn bowl, yet another thing that Crowley was positive hadn’t been in the flat before Aziraphale had arrived with the DVD.

“Well. I just thought… if I were to be the one requesting an evening together that I’d make the effort to choose something to, erm, interest you.”

Something small and pathetic fluttered weakly behind Crowley’s breastbone. Words piled up on the tip of his tongue, ridiculously cloying horrible words like “you interest me, Angel” and “I’d watch grass grow as long as you were there with me”.

The silence had stretched by this point, punctuated by the screeching of tires and the occasional explosion, and after a moment more of expectant waiting, Aziraphale seemed to slump, just a bit, settling back against the couch.

Feeling like he’d missed something, Crowley looked back at the screen, where the lead was going on about something or other in an overly dramatic fashion. He was aware of his corporeal form in a way he typically wasn’t, mostly because it seemed to be leaking from strange places. Like the palms of his hands.

He subtly tried to wipe them on the knees of his slacks and chanced another sideways glance at Aziraphale.

On the screen, another car exploded and Aziraphale’s brow creased a bit, his expression faintly confused. It seemed he wasn’t following the thin plot either.

His pale fingers scooped up another handful of popcorn and really, Crowley had to stop looking. It had been far too long to be natural at this point, and he was just watching Aziraphale eat popcorn.

Aziraphale shifted in his seat and Crowley flinched, convinced he’d been caught, but no, the angel was just leaning over, putting the bowl on the side table, and really, where had all this furniture come from?

This had the added effect of making Aziraphale’s hands free, a fact that snagged Crowley’s attention and held it. Crowley licked his lips, looking from the burning car on the screen to Aziraphale’s left hand, then back to the screen.

Alright. Aziraphale seemed to be absorbed in the film again, eyes fixed on the television, and really, it would be easy. Just a few inches. Crowley could put his hand just there, could bridge that gap, and then… well, then. Then Crowley’s hand would be touching Aziraphale’s and they would be holding hands. Just sitting together, the evening crisp, watching a stupid film and holding hands.

Crowley lifted his hand off his own knee, just barely enough to count, and found to his horror that his fingers were trembling. Trembling! The tattered fragments of whatever bits of soul remained seemed to be twisting in his chest, and the heart that he didn’t need was slamming itself against his ribs like a bird trying to escape a cage.

He swallowed – not that he needed to, but it seemed to be the thing to do – and moved his hand a fraction of an inch to his right.

Or, he tried to. He seemed to be frozen in place, his hand hovering over his own knee, unable to move a single muscle.

On screen, another car exploded. Weren’t they running out of cars by this point?

_Too fast, Crowley_ , whispered a voice in the back of his mind and Crowley closed his eyes, squeezing them shut and letting his hand fall back into his own lap.

So what if they’d managed to subvert the apocalypse? So what if Aziraphale had stood over him, desperate, begging him to stand up and fight with him? So what if Crowley had basically insinuated that a lifetime without Aziraphale was worth less to him than a few hours with him?

That didn’t rewrite their rules. At least, not the most important of them.

“Um!” Aziraphale said, quite suddenly.

Crowley opened his eyes.

Aziraphale was twisting his fingers in his lap, staring down at them with a determined set to his jaw.

“I wonder,” he began, choosing his words carefully, “if we might… sit a bit closer.”

Crowley stared at him. “What?”

A muscle jumped in Aziraphale’s jaw, his expression full of familiar angelic stubbornness. “It’s a bit. Um. Cold. In here.”

Crowley blinked, purely to emphasize the absurdity of Azirphale’s statement. “Angel. I’m cold-blooded. I have six different tropical plants. It is not cold in here.”

Aziraphale said nothing, merely pressed his lips together. Crowley watched him for another long moment, bewildered, but when Aziraphale showed no signs of explaining, he shrugged.

“I suppose I can check the unit. Might be on the fritz or something.” Crowley went to stand, half-thinking about just tugging a heater out of thin air, when Aziraphale’s head snapped around, expression alarmed, and suddenly there was a hand resting quite solidly on Crowley’s knee.

Crowley’s train of thought went careening off the tracks as he froze, half-off the sofa, staring down at the hand pressing gently against his knee.

“No, I--” Aziraphale stopped. Took an unnecessary breath. Started again. “I think this, um. This...” And here he pressed down on Crowley’s knee, and Crowley obeyed, sinking back down onto the couch. “This should be fine.” Aziraphale shifted, just a bit, until they were touching, elbow to elbow and thigh to thigh, a line of warmth running from knee to shoulder.

“Erk,” said Crowley.

“Yes, I think-- I think this should do,” Aziraphale said faintly.

The silence was thick, punctuated by the squealing of car tires and the rat-a-tat of gunfire from the television. Crowley couldn’t move, sitting rigid next to Aziraphale, hyper-aware of all the places the angel’s corporation was pressed against his. After a moment of this suffocating tension, Aziraphale, his expression grim, carefully lifted his hand off Crowley’s knee.

Crowley reacted purely on instinct, moving before he’d made any sort of conscious decision, and before Aziraphale could retreat another inch he caught Aziraphale’s hand and trapped it against his knee.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed. Crowley flinched.

“It’s. This. Fine. Here,” he gritted out. Aziraphale was still for a moment, eyes fixed wonderingly on the side of Crowley’s face. Crowley could just see his expression out of the corner of his eyes, and he hoped desperately that the angel couldn’t hear the sound of his traitor useless heart going absolutely mental in his chest.

Then, carefully, Aziraphale settled back against the couch cushions, leaning into Crowley’s shoulder. He gave Crowley’s knee a gentle squeeze, almost a caress, if Crowley were to use those kinds of words, and Crowley wondered wildly what would happen to him if his corporation were to just sort of spontaneously combust. Would he just get shot straight back to Hell, do not pass Go?

He flexed his fingers against Aziraphale’s. For a moment, they both stared hard at the television.

“How many of these films did they make?” asked Aziraphale. Was Crowley imagining it, or did his voice seem a bit rougher?

“Eight,” Crowley croaked.

Aziraphale sighed. “Well, I suppose I shall have to go back and rent the rest of the series, then, won’t I?” Crowley raised an eyebrow at him and Aziraphale huffed. “My dear, we have to know what happened next. Can’t possibly leave the story unfinished, now can we?”

“I don’t think these are really known for their master storytelling,” Crowley said absently, his mind sticking on the word _we,_ lovely word that it was.

Aziraphale laughed softly. “It’s certainly no _Hamlet_ , I’ll give it that,” he said, and just like that, tipped his head to the side to rest it against Crowley’s shoulder.

Crowley went perfectly still, just for a moment, Aziraphale’s soft curls brushing his cheek, eyes blown wide behind his sunglasses.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew a first class temptation when he saw one.

Crowley swallowed, again, and carefully let his own head tip to rest against Aziraphale’s. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“I guess we’ll have to watch the other seven, then,” he croaked and Aziraphale hummed.

“Obviously,” he murmured, and gave Crowley’s knee a squeeze.

  



End file.
